


No Matter What Circumstances

by vicewithavice



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arranged Marriage, M/M, Pre-Iron Bull, rating will go up up up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:59:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5927539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vicewithavice/pseuds/vicewithavice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a truce is negotiated between Tevinter and the Qunari, one person from each side is chosen to be married.<br/>Hissrad is the Ben-Hassrath's best spy. Dorian is a problem that needs to go away.<br/>This is not what Tevinter had in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Matter What Circumstances

**Author's Note:**

> Haha ok. Coming up with a reason for Iron Bull and Dorian to be married is a lot like cramming a square peg into a circle hole since the Qun don't marry and Tevinter is Tevinter. Anything for my tropes.

The arrangement, such as it was, was this: in order to keep the peace of the newly formed truce between Tevinter and the Qunari, each party would contribute a token member of society, someone affluent and well-known in their respective countries. These representatives would be sent to warring Seheron, a powderkeg island so fraught with tension that the slightest spark exploded into violence between the two peoples. The so called Peace Representatives would set an example of mutual respect and cooperation, settling disputes through mediation or, when necessary, brute intervention. So long as both parties were playing an active role in their mission, the island would be neutral territory, neither Qunari nor Tevinter, governed by an impartial cabinet and overseen by said representatives. Papers were signed and hands shaken. It was a treaty that would shock all of Thedas.

Not on the treaty were the two stipulations each country had put forward in a private meeting between the two powers. The Qunari wanted a guarantee that upon signing, slavery would be abolished and criminalized. Tevinter agreed, on the condition that the representatives would marry, in order to pass their claim of the island on to the next of kin. 

That's how Dorian found himself woken from bed much too early by his frantic mother. She yelled instructions at him in a mix of Common and Tevene, throwing the covers off him as slaves bustled about the room, pulling out robes. Hungover, or perhaps still drunk, he let himself be manhandled into traditional black robes with golden accents. He had never seen them before, but instantly knew his parents had bought them for his indefinitely postponed wedding. As the elfs continued grooming him, he grew more and more concerned that he was in fact being ambushed for his own wedding, and half expected to be dragged down the stairs and into the ceremony.

It was worse. 

Sitting in the drawing room was the Archon himself, Halward at his side, talking somberly in hushed voices. 

“Am I so dearly missed in the Magisterium?” Dorian said, boisterous to hide the lump in his throat. 

“Dorian. Take a seat,” his father said, motioning to the beautiful yet excruciatingly uncomfortable chair across from them. He connected to that chair on a spiritual level. 

The room they were sitting in was pristine, decorated laboriously by his mother with ancient art pieces from across the continent, and therefore no one was ever allowed to set foot in it. He didn't feel at home in this room, nor did his father’s presence provide any comfort.

His father handed him a copy of the newly signed treaty, which Dorian presumed he was meant to read. He scanned it quickly, understanding the words but unable to grasp why the Archon should be in attendance. 

“A noble goal, if not lofty and loosely worded.” He said finally, after a moment of tense silence.

And then it struck him. He tossed the paper back on to the table between them. 

“No. No.”

It took two hours to pack his belongings, turned out his mother and a few slaves had already started while Dorian argued and cursed. He wasn't proud of how he reacted, he knew he was petulant, throwing a tantrum to get out of it, but we wouldn't silently accept it. Not this. 

It was an honour, the Archon explained, a great responsibility, he should be proud. A responsibility yes, but there was no honour in being sent out of Tevinter. It was punishment, he knew it as well as they did, for the scandals and shame he'd bestowed upon the proud Pavus name, and the Archon by association. His father would certainly be receiving some boon for this, a promotion or raise, but Dorian thought sourly the exile of his son was a reward on its own. Cast away the inconvenience and be done with it, that's how Tevinter worked. He was almost surprised they hadn't done it sooner. 

In the end, he left. His father tried to explain he only wanted what was best for him, which seemed to be, in this case, shipping him off to a underdeveloped island of bandits. It stung, knowing that his father deeply believed this was what had to be done. 

For his troubles, Dorian was given a large sum of coin, a generous monthly stipend, and the meaningless new title of Ambassador for Peace. None of which he wanted or asked for. His bags were placed in a carriage, so many they had to strap a few to the roof, and Dorian rode with the Archon, who would visit the island in an act of good will. He hadn't asked how long he would be gone for; he knew he wouldn't like the answer.

The carriages followed the old road out to the dockyards, where Dorian boarded a large ship that carried him across the sea to Seheron. He was still in his ceremonial robes of black velvet and gold embroidery, so heavy even the wind could barely rustle them as he stood on the deck, hoping for cool air but instead smothering in the humidity. Still, it was better than sitting inside with the Archon, and sometimes a splash of water would hit his face. 

The passage from Tevinter to Seheron took six hours, and it was another three hours in the carriage to the city. The route was treacherous, nothing more than a dirt path surrounded by large trees, their roots pushing up from the earth, jostling the carriage and nearly loosening the wheels. They were passed often by Qunari on horseback, each of them throwing the luxurious carriages odd looks. For a stretch, a young child, barely sprouting horns, followed alongside them, peeking curiously into their window and shouting back to the group of other children. A tall woman shouted after him, and he slowed. 

The Archon tsked. “Doesn’t even know who his parents are. Such primitive beasts, look at them.”

More women were passing them, either topless or wearing next to nothing. Dorian tried, couldn’t fault them. It was hot here, and the humidity sank into him, leaving him light-headed even as he sat. Frankly, he’d be happy to strip himself of these robes if he had the chance. Sweat beaded over his brow and down the back of his neck, he felt sticky all over. 

Dorian had no real preconceived notions of what Seheron would be like. He never much thought of it. He knew only it was once Tevinter territory, then, after a brief and bloody game of tug-o-war, Qunari territory. As they approached over a rolling hill, Dorian almost gasped. Much of the city was made of old Tevinter-style architecture: tall towers, spiraling out of the greenery. Many of them were crumbling from the effects of the war, and he didn’t think the Qunari had much interest in maintaining them. Behind the city, the ports, lined with the gigantic dreadnoughts that dwarfed any vessel Dorian had ever seen. Only once they had entered the city did he see the Qunari influence; small buildings, simple in design, with no doors or windows, just open entrances to let the air move through. Many homes seemed to be made of canvas.

Finally, the carriage slowed to a stop outside a building that might have been an Imperial Chantry. It seemed to be the biggest, but it was hard to tell with one of the towers blown off. He staggered onto the street, righting himself with careful grace. He was stiff from sitting so long, but stretching wasn’t an option in his heavy robes. “This is where I’m staying?”

It wasn’t the worst place. It was just outside the main city, the lines of the building familiar to him in a city so completely foreign. If he ignored the stream of Qunari walking in, he could almost think he was home.

There sure were a lot of Qunari walking in.

“No. This is just the first stop.”

They walked up the steps and entered the great cathedral. The hall was large enough to seat a thousand, and the back wall was almost completely taken up by a stained glass window depicting Andraste surrounded by mages. Many tiles had been knocked out, but Dorian could imagine the effect it would have had when the sun rose behind it.

“Do the Qunari even worship Andraste? Or anyone?” He asked, watching more Qunari, as well as the odd human, settle into the pews.

The Archon wasn’t listening. He was talking to a Qunari who answered in grunts and gestures. He pointed down a set of stairs. “This way.”

“I’m afraid we haven’t been quite honest with you,” the Archon explained as Dorian followed after him. This was hardly a surprise. “You see, in order to keep our claim on the land, we need to ensure you an heir, someone who can rightly inherit your position in case of any… unpleasantness, Maker forbid it.”

The room suddenly went cold around him. 

“A son or daughter, either is fine, whom we can quickly marry to another of our kind. In a few generations, I think we can regain our grip on the island.”

“An heir?”

“I know it’s not preferred, but they say their ambassador is an intelligent lady, respected by her peers. Of course, we’ll expect updates on her correspondences, who she meets with. We can expect they’ll be planning a coup.”

They entered an ante-chamber in the basement, dank and dark, the smell of old dirt overpowered him. He was shaking, and not from the heat. Of course his parents would pull something like this. This was their last revenge.

“This him?” The voice was gruff, heavily accented, and Dorian jumped. He hadn’t noticed anyone else in the room, but looking at the stranger, he had no idea how he missed him. He stood seven feet tall, taller with the horns that branched out his head, almost as wide as his enormous shoulders. Not just tall, but large in every sense: barrel chest, a round stomach that didn't disguise the layers of muscle underneath, and arms so big Dorian couldn't circle his hands around them. To add to it, he was missing his left eye, and his bare torso was covered in silver scars. 

“We… are… looking… for Hissrad.” The Archon spoke slowly, over enunciating each word. “Hissrad… she here?”

The man’s brow furrowed, and looked between the Archon and Dorian.

“I’m Hissrad.”

-

Dorian thought the agreement would be called off. The Archon was blustering and pacing the basement, yelling, but not to anyone is particular. It was bad enough he had to sanction a marriage between his people and a Qunari, he was saying, spittle flying from his mouth, but between two men? He wouldn't debase his country like that, not with all of Thedas watching. He insisted the Qunari name a new representative, he’d go find one off the street if he had to, just do it quick so he could get off this waste of an island. And how could the Qunari go along with this, didn't his people have any idea of what a marriage symbolised? 

“Most Qunari don't even know what a marriage is,” Hissrad said, finally interrupting the Archon’s tirade. “Most of the people watching will think it’s some sort of Tevinter military ceremony, most likely.”

Dorian grinned discreetly as the Archon threw his hands up in exasperation. Hissrad caught his eye and grinned back. It was oddly comforting, no one had smiled at him in so long. 

Just when it seemed the whole agreement would be called off, with Dorian free to return… not home, not after this, but back to Tevinter, several more Qunari walked in, having heard the shouts. They seemed to be officials of some sort, though none of them spoke Common as well as Hissrad. After more arguments and a few mistranslations, they made it clear the treaty was to be upheld, that the Archon had, after all, agreed with their choice of representative, and should've done his research, since it was Tevinter’s idea that the two should be married anyway. 

It was decided, then, he realized with a drop in his stomach. The Archon stormed out, refusing to take any part in such a travesty, leaving Dorian in the room with four Qunari. He’d never felt so alone. They were amongst themselves in rapid Qunlat, the words unintelligible to his ears. Many of the languages in Thedas shared common roots; Orlesian was not dissimilar to Tevene, for example, but this language was completely different, there was no way to discern even the simplest words. He couldn't even make out the tone of their conversation. 

Eventually the three officials left, leaving just Dorian and Hissrad.

“I asked if we still had to get married, with the Archon gone.”

Dorian picked his head up in surprise. Hissrad was looking at him, his one eye fixed on his face. It was unnerving, and he had the impression that Hissrad saw more with just one eye than most people saw with two. 

“They say we do. We have to hold up our end of the bargain so the ‘Vints hold up theirs.”

He found himself numb to the idea of marriage now, as though his body had depleted its stock of angry disappointment. 

“How do you feel about it?” He asked. If he was going to marry this man, might as well get to know him. 

Hissrad shrugged. “I don't give a shit about marriage, doesn't mean anything to me. It's just another inconvenience, far as I see it.”

Dorian's views were about the same. He explained to Hissrad what marriage was back in Tevinter, more of a breeding program, every couple chosen to produce the perfect offspring. His parents, for example, married despite no real affection, only a modicum of respect, really, but paired up to produce an outstanding and magically gifted young man. He was babbling mostly, nervous and uncomfortable, but he couldn't stand the silence. 

Hissrad chuckled. “That's not so different from the Qun, you know. Parents are picked based on what kind of children the Tamassrans need, and our first given names are just strings of genetic sequences.”

It wasn't really so different, he realized. He’d always thought of child raising in Qunari as a barbaric practice, coldly manufacturing children and then taking them away from their parents at birth to be raised like a dog in a kennel. Funny, how easy it was to distinguish yourself from the other, no matter the similarities. 

Another horned head poked into the room, mumbling something and then leaving. 

“It's time.” Hissrad said. 

They walked up the steps together, Dorian clutching his staff tightly. He was still woozy, growing even more lightheaded as he made his way into the main hall, aware of all the eyes on him. For once, he didn't crave the attention, found himself folding inwards. When they reached the altar, Dorian looked out at the congregation: Qunari mostly, looking ridiculous in their minimal scraps of fabric, watching curiously, and the humans, separated from the others, looking more fit to be in a Chantry in their respectable robes, some shocked, others angry to see the two men standing at the front of the room. The silence rang out louder than bells. 

-

It was, without a doubt, the strangest ceremony Dorian had been to. A wizened old Qunari man officiated the ceremony, and he seemed to have only the thinnest grasp on what a marriage was. He read from the Qun, spoke of the Divine, though neither passages applied to a wedding. He’d been standing for thirty minutes listening, and his head grew lighter, black blurring the edge of his vision. The last thing he saw was Hissrad’s look of concern before it all went dark. 

-

He woke on his back, blinking up at an unfamiliar roof. His memory pieced together the day, standing at the altar, the smothering heat, the weight of his robes. He was in a different building now, low ceiling, grey walls. Had he really been unconscious so long? 

“Here.”

Before Dorian could even comprehend someone has spoken to him, a large glass of water was shoved in his hands. 

Hissrad sat on a stool next to the bed Dorian was on, paper and quill on his lap. “Drink. Doctor says you're severely dehydrated.”

Dorian took a small sip, unsure his stomach would tolerate a full glass. 

“Well that can't be right,” Dorian said sarcastically. “I drank two whole bottles of wine last night.”

The water was cold, enough that the glass was sweating, and he would have just as happily dumped the whole thing over his head. He noticed he was out of his robes, not naked but stripped to his underpinnings.

“Writing in your journal, are you?” 

Hissrad looked briefly down at the paper. “Report for the Ben-Hassrath, they want a full update on you: strengths, weaknesses, whatever we can use to bribe or blackmail you. I assume Tevinter expects you to send them something similar.”

“Something like that, yes.” He drank more water, feeling the cool liquid slide down his throat. “So, should I expect a double-crossing anytime? A dagger to the back to usurp Tevinter’s presence, perhaps, or a quick bludgeoning over the head. Do let me know in advance so I can dress myself properly for the funeral.”

Hissrad barked out a laugh, full-bellied and contagious. “Don't worry. You're no good to us dead, can't get any information out of a dead man. As long as you don't use any of that magic crap on me,” his gaze shifted the Dorian's staff, perched on the far wall, “we’re gonna get along just fine.”

Once he had drunk a satisfactory amount of water, Dorian was free to wander around his new house. His bedroom, the one he had woken up in, was the largest, and as he walked the carriage of his belongings was being unloaded, suitcases piling up along the floor. Hissrad's room was next to his, door open. He tried not to look inside, but he couldn't help but notice how bare it was. A few weapons, a bed, but that was all. He supposed that, under the Qun, people were discouraged from keeping more than was essential. A bathroom, thankfully no different than what he was used to, though much more modest, a small kitchen,empty, Hissrad left to pick up food from the market. The dining room chairs and the couches in the living room were large and plush, made to support the weight of the Qunari. 

There was no library, no writing room or solarium. No slaves bustled around with pitchers of ice wine or trays of fresh buns. There was, at least, a front door, heavy and secure with several bolts and latches, since the two of them would be a target for separatists on both sides. 

Thinking of home hurt, because thoughts of his parents followed. Halward, who cheered him on at his Harrowing, face brimming with pride, clapping loudest, could now barely look at him. Aquinea, at once an overbearing and distant mother. She’d come to his aid before, when Halward had threatened to kick him to the streets, talked some sense into him. Now she had packed his bags for him. 

He needed a distraction. He needed books.

Back in his room, he shuffled through suitcases, pulling out robe after robes, his favourite pieces of jewelry, but no books. He could tell just by picking the pieces of luggage up and shaking them. She hadn't packed his books, they were still on his desk, along with all the research he had done. Hours and hours in the library, pouring over old tomes of forgotten magic, a sea away. Soon enough, the slaves would be in to clear it all away. 

That was what pushed him over the edge. Despite everything that had happened, the thought of his books, his writings, gone or abandoned was what drew the first tear. Once he started, he couldn't dam the flow, and there was no choice but to let it out. 

He cried in the way he’d taught himself not to years ago: sobbing, heaving, nose running and eyes puffy. It was messy and cathartic, left his whole body aching, but it was cleansing. When the sobs abated and the tears stopped, he felt better. Foolish, even. 

“Better?” Dorian flinched and spun to see Hissrad standing in the doorway. He was holding a handkerchief, but instead of awkwardly holding it out and leaving, he walked in and sat next to Dorian on the ground, groaning a bit as he adjusted his ankle. Dorian just noticed the metal brace.

“You can talk about it, if you want.” He said, passing the kerchief over so Dorian could wipe his face. “Sometimes it's easier to talk to a stranger, and I know how much it sucks to keep stuff bottled in.”

Dorian toyed with the fabric in his hands. True, it was easier to speak to someone he didn't know, albeit this stranger was also his husband with whom he shared his house (had they been married? He wasn't sure if the ceremony continued after he was unconscious).

So he shared, not everything, surely some of this would go in his report to the Ben-something, but enough. The books, his father sending him away, one arranged marriage traded for another. 

“How did you end up here?” He asked. He didn't really care how, he just wanted Hissrad to stay, needed the distraction. 

He went quiet, thinking, maybe deciding not to say anything, maybe coming up with a lie. 

Finally, he told Dorian that he had been stationed to the island ten years ago by the Ben-Hassrath. They were secret police, he explained, sent to weed out threats from both inside and outside the Qun. It was dangerous work, often bloody. 

“I'm sure you killed your share of my people.” Dorian spat. He didn't mean to be antagonistic, but he’d heard so much of the terrible fates that befell Tevinters living out here. 

“When I had to.” Hissrad replied sharply. “And it wasn't just ‘Vints. It was Tal-Vashoth and Fog Warriors and anyone else that needed to be dealt with.”

Dorian bit his tongue. It sounded awful. 

Hissrad continued. Eventually, he’d had enough. The work was changing him, he became paranoid, irritable, most of his colleagues left after two years, if they hadn't gone mad. So he quit, turned himself in and asked for a new assignment. So here he was, not much happier about it than Dorian was, he wasn't suited for bureaucracy, and didn't hold much hope for a lasting peace, even though he wanted it to succeed. 

Dorian believed him. He didn't trust him, not yet, but he believed him. 

-

The next morning, Dorian stood in the kitchen, looking overwhelmed and helpless. He’d always left the cooking to the slaves, he only ever got in their way when he tried to help, a fact they didn't hide from him. He’d watch his mother fumble around in there too, sometimes, growing more and more frustrated until she threatened to throw the chopping knife across the room, which was usually when one of the slaves would try to salvage whatever she had started. His father had a skill with baking, he remembered eating his honey-glazed pastries one birthday, but as he advanced in the magisterium, he had less time for such things. 

He surveyed the selection of exotic fruits and oddly dark bread sitting out on the counter. One berry, the size of an apple and coloured deep purple, stained his fingers when he picked it up and wouldn't wash off no matter how hard he scrubbed. His stomach rumbled, so he ripped off a chunk of the bread; it seemed safest. 

As he chewed, he looked again around the kitchen, taking it all in. This time yesterday, he was being pushed out the door like a stray cat. Best not to keep dwelling. He thought of Hissrad instead, how unlike all the other Qunari he was. Not just physically, though his horns and body shape set him apart easily, but in how he acted. Most followers of the Qun were mindless drones, as far as he saw it. They had no use for humour or fun or proper clothing. The last one he understood; even in his light summer robes the heat was crawling into his skin, and the sun had barely crested over the buildings. He’d take the money he was given and buy new clothes and wine. Lots and lots of wine. 

With the scraping of many locks, Hissrad walked through the front door, ducking his head to get his horns through. He had several bags in his hands, and Dorian was shocked to learn that anyone could be so productive this early in the morning. 

“So I was talking to my guys,” Hissrad said, setting the bags down onto the table. They looked heavy. “They just need us to sign some paperwork to make this marriage crap official.” He rummaged around and pulled out a wrinkled piece of paper. He grabbed a pen, scribbled his name on it quickly, then slid them across to Dorian. The paper hardly looked official, but he figured there weren't many marriages on this forsaken island. He signed, his signature looping and slanted where Hissrad's was sharp lines. He laughed bitterly as he imagined his parents’ look of horror. They’d have been told by now that there was a problem with the plan, that despite all their best efforts, their son would be wed to not just a man, but a Qunari. It was almost worth all the trouble. Almost. He pushed the paper aside. 

“Here.” From his bags, Hissrad pulled out a small stack of books, clearly used but still beautifully bound in leather with gold foil accents. “There aren't many books in the Common language up here. Not many books at all, really.”

His pride clashed with his curiosity. Part of him wanted to refuse them, he didn't need Hissrad’s tokens of pity, didn't want him to think his affection was so easily bought. On the other hand, Dorian's affection was quite easily bought, especially with beautiful books. He looked at the titles on the spine: essays on necromancers, journals of the Nevarran necropoli. His brow furrowed. 

“How did you-?”

“Just because your people didn't think to have anyone look into me doesn't mean we weren't going to learn as much about you as we could.”

“You…” he thought back to last night, sitting on the floor, opening up to Hissrad. Had he known everything already? What else did he know, how deep did they dig? He felt invaded, betrayed almost, though what trust could Hissrad have betrayed, they were strangers, two pawns on a battlefield. “You could have at least told me! I know nothing of you, yet you seem to know everything about me. It’s- it’s…” unfair, he wanted to say, but everything about this was unfair. “Kaffas! I never asked for any of this. I’m not a spy, and I'm not a representative of my backwards country. ” 

He grabbed his coin bag and his staff and stormed out the door. Hissrad called out after him, but he didn't turn back.

**Author's Note:**

> gratuitous plug: I'm on tumblr catch me at qvnaris for more adoribull fics and headcanons i just never stop


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